In which
by Idrab
Summary: The gay club thing in "Frenemy" (2x6) never happens: before they get there, Derek, Stiles, Scott and Jackson are abducted. When Derek wakes up, Stiles tells him they're in an underground facility where evil scientists (Stiles' words) are apparantly conducting experiments. They can't get out. Loosely told from Derek's POV.
1. In which they wake up

Author's note: Not beta'd.

Disclaimer: I own nothing relevant.

* * *

Waking up was like trying to swim ashore through an ocean of mud. He heard sounds before he was aware of what they were, and he was almost surprised when he realized they were voices. One that he recognized vaguely, but he couldn't remember from where. His head hurt something terrible, but he made an effort to understand the words being spoken. It sounded … off, somehow. _Wrong._

He tried to shake his head to clear the fog from his brain, but that sent a spike of pain through his body, and he must have made some kind of sound because the voices got quiet. At least for a few seconds. Or maybe it was longer, he wasn't sure. He might have blacked out for a while, there. He managed a weak groan, and was rewarded with words. One of the voices he had just heard. The familiar one.

"Derek? You awake?"

A pause.

"Hey, Derek. Come on, man. Wake up."

He wanted to growl. What came out was a croak:

"Stiles." Because it was suddenly very clear who the owner of that voice was.

"Awake, _and_ you recognize me, awesome! Things are looking up. Let's see if all good things do in deed come in threes, and you manage to actually stay awake this time."

At this, he managed to move his head slightly and open his eyes. The light hurt his eyes and he turned his head to the side and saw a big blur that was moving slightly. He blinked a couple of times. The blurry image was sharpening and revealed …

"Stiles."

"Yes, Derek, we've established that already. Me Stiles, you Derek, we in trouble. Get your shit together, man."

And that, if anything, made the fog in Derek's head clear. Just like that. He blinked again and took in his surroundings. He was lying on his side on a clinically white tiled floor in a brightly lit room with two opposing walls, which were as white as the floor he was lying on. The other two walls weren't really walls at all, but see-through. Some kind of transparent thermoplastic, he guessed. Maybe glass. And there was Stiles, on the other side of one of those transparent walls, sitting on the floor and watching him.

What he wanted to know was _Where were they? How did they end up here? Who had taken them, and Why? What was this place? How long had they been there? Why was his mouth so dry? And why didn't Stiles' voice sound like it was coming from Stiles' mouth?_

What he actually said was: "What?"

Stiles nodded, as if he understood, but sighed and looked resigned as he elaborated:

"We're underground, that much I know. I don't know where, although I suspect we're halfway across the country, judging from the plane trip we had to make to get here. They know about you guys being werewolves and … well, a giant lizard."

Derek's heart skipped a beat. "What– what did you tell them?"

Stiles didn't even flinch at the growl, but he frowned in irritation before he replied: "I didn't tell them anything. They knew already. They came specifically for you guys."

The meaning of that hit Derek like a ton of bricks, and it must have shown on his face because Stiles sighed again and moved to the side so that Derek could see behind him. Stiles was in a space just like Derek's, with another transparent wall separating his space from another one just like it. And there, on the floor in that room, was Scott. Lying on the floor, with his back to them. Scott didn't move. Derek's mind swam and he looked at Stiles again, who only gestured in the other direction, behind Derek. He turned around, and there were more rooms like theirs, all of them separated by see-through walls and most of them empty, but on the floor in the one next to Derek's space was Jackson. Like Scott, he wasn't moving.

Derek's first impulse was to listen for their heartbeats, to smell them, to get to them and see if they were still alive … but he found that he couldn't. The glass prevented it. And that's when he realized what was wrong with Stiles' voice. It was distorted. Looking up, he discovered why. There was a white speaker built into the ceiling, and that's where Stiles' voice came from. That's why it sounded wrong. He couldn't hear the others' heartbeats, he couldn't feel their scent. It felt almost like a physical blow, and confused him more than he would ever admit. He could only smell sterile walls, clean surfaces and himself. The only heartbeat he could hear was his own, even though he could clearly see the others through the glass. It felt wrong, like someone had amputated one of his limbs.

Stiles wasn't aware of this, though, and continued: "They got me and Scott outside the club. Not that we … We were going there for Jackson. I mean, he was going after Danny. I think. I don't even know. Anyway, me and Scott, we were in the alley outside and … They shot some kind of tranquilizer darts at us. Scott fell, I didn't, and I suppose that tipped them off that I was human … Anyway, they got us in a van. A few minutes later, they threw in Jackson as well, and maybe half an hour later, you. So … yeah."

Stiles shrugged. Derek's mind was reeling.

"You said a plane."

"Yeah, eventually we got onto a plane. You guys were out for the count, but we were in the air for hours. When we landed, they put us in another van, and then we were driving for … maybe an hour? They took us from the van into a building, there were only woods around it as far as I could see, and there was an elevator and some corridors and since the building didn't look like it had more than one floor from the outside, I'm pretty sure we're in an underground compound in the middle of nowhere; the base of operations for the evil scientists that kidnapped us. Such a cliché!" He said the last part very loudly.

"Evil scientists."

"Evil scientists, yes. Like in the movies, only worse, because these guys are real. They've been …"

And Stiles stopped talking, blinked and swallowed, looked away. Took a second to compose himself, it seemed, before he looked into Derek's eyes and continued:

"You've been out of it since they threw us in the van, basically. You all have. I didn't … You didn't wake up, you didn't move. They came in there and they took samples of your blood, hair, saliva ... And you never moved. Neither one of you even _moved_."

Derek didn't have to use his wolf senses to hear the worry in Stiles' voice, but before he could comment on it, Stiles gave a mirthless little laugh and added, almost under his breath: "I felt more useless than ever, which is saying something."

Derek felt as if he should say something, but he'd never been good with words and he needed to be updated on the situation, so after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, he sat up straight and asked: "How long have we been here?"

"I don't know. They took my phone, obviously, and it's not like there's a handy calendar around." He noticed Derek's frown and hurried to add: "But I've been fed four times, and I've slept three times. But I think that one of those times was more of a nap? And I'm tired, so I've probably been awake for longer than usual. All in all … I don't know. Few days, maybe? They never turn the lights off."

And Derek looked at Stiles again and noticed the bags under his eyes, the paleness of his skin and the slight tremor of his voice that even the speaker couldn't hide. It must have been several days, and it must have been horrible for him. Again, Derek felt as if he should say something but Stiles beat him to it:

"How do you feel?"

How did he feel? Derek did a mental inventory. He was weaker than he remembered being, ever, and thirsty – though not as thirsty as he should be if they had indeed been here for days. He told Stiles this. Stiles nodded.

"They had you hooked up to IV's in the beginning. They just removed them a couple of hours ago, actually. Hey, maybe that's why you woke up. They left a few bottles of water by the door."

The door? Derek was ashamed to admit to himself that he hadn't even noticed the door, but there it was. In the middle of one of the white walls, there was a white door. To his defence, it blended in pretty well in the general whiteness that was the wall, but still. He should have noticed it. And now, he also noticed that each of the cells – because it became pretty clear that it was cells they were being held in, even though there were no metal bars in sight – had a door. And there were, in deed, a couple of water bottles by the doors in both his, Scott's and Jackson's cells. Next to them was a white plastic bucket. Why would there –? Oh.

Not trusting himself to stand up, Derek crept towards the door on all fours, snagged the water bottles and returned to his place in the other end; under the speaker, closer to Stiles. Stiles, who seemingly ignored the fact that Derek hadn't stood up (but who definitely noticed anyway), kept ignoring him while Derek drank. He took a cautious sip at first, but when he couldn't taste anything wrong with the water, he downed the whole bottle. He raised an eyebrow at Stiles and held up the empty bottle, and Stiles shrugged and made a vague gesture.

"It's okay, I had some … before."

Derek put the empty bottle down and glanced around the space he was confined in.

"Are they monitoring us?"

Stiles didn't even bother to look at him as he replied. "Oh, most definitely. I think they're even recording you guys being unconscious for their creepy science purposes."

And even though Derek didn't want to ask; didn't want to give them (whoever _they_ were) the satisfaction of knowing he was in the dark about this whole thing, he asked the question that was burning in his brain:

"What do they _want_?"

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again. Wet his lips.

"I don't know. It's not like they gave me a tour when we got here." A pause. A sigh. "But since they know that you are … what you are … and considering they took all those … samples or whatever – oh don't give me that look, I looked away! – I'm thinking they're experimenting with werewolf powers. Or something. Hell, that's what I would have done if I had kidnapped a couple of werewolves and a were-lizard and was keeping them in a creepy underground facility."

Derek wanted to ask, _needed_ to ask; Then what about _you_? But he didn't.

* * *

They didn't talk much after that. Stiles mentioned some random facts a few times, and Derek hmm:ed at them, but didn't offer more than a few words himself so Stiles stopped trying. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, though. There was just nothing to be said, especially since someone was probably listening in – and it was comforting to know that there was another person on the other side of the glass. It felt like enough, for the time being.

It couldn't have been more than an hour when Jackson first stirred. Derek and Stiles had taken to sitting with their backs against the glass, back to back, so Derek was the first to notice. Jackson rolled onto his back and groaned, which made Stiles aware of the fact that he was awake.

Derek told himself there was no reason to get excited, and forced himself to stay seated where he was. A few minutes passed, and then Jackson lifted his hand and covered his eyes. He made a sound which sounded suspiciously like a whine and rolled to the side again, curling up in a ball.

"Stiles?"

Scott's voice. Derek turned around just as Stiles, who had also been watching Jackson, whirled around and almost threw himself at the glass separating his cell from Scott's.

"Scott, man, boy am I glad to hear your voice. How are you feeling?"

Scott had dragged himself up in a sitting position and looked … awful. He was pale and was swaying slightly where he sat, and he blinked furiously as he looked around with a frown, trying to take in the situation. His eyes took in the cells, Jackson and Derek, and finally landed on Stiles.

"I feel … hungover."

He reached up and held his head. "And like I've been hit by a truck. Repeatedly. And died."

Stiles let out a laugh that almost sounded real. "Well, buddy, you're the best-looking zombie I've ever seen, hands down."

Scott smiled a little at his friend before he frowned.

"What's going on?"

There was more to that question than it seemed. Scott nodded towards Derek and Jackson's cells, then his gaze flickered towards the doors before he locked eyes with Stiles again.

"Yeah, I'd like to know that too," Jackson said, voice raspy and devoid of his usual bravado.

Derek turned around and gave him a look while Stiles dismissed them both completely, never turning his back on Scott.

"Long story short, we've been kidnap–"

Stiles' voice was abruptly cut off and the unnatural sound of silence filled Derek's cell. He shook his head at first, trying to regain his hearing, before he realized that someone had shut off the speakers. Apparently Stiles had come to the same conclusion, as he turned around and met Derek's eyes. His mouth moved, but no sound could be heard. Stiles looked irritated and glared towards the ceiling over the door, while his mouth kept moving. Derek followed his gaze but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary … besides a tiny little black dot, smaller than a fingernail, where the wall met the ceiling. A camera? He looked, and sure enough, his cell had one as well. As did Scott's, Jackson's, and the others'.

Jackson and Scott looked unsure and confused, and Scott started to stand up, but they all froze when a voice was heard from the speakers.

"You have been brought to this facility because of what you are. We know what you are. We advice that you do what you're told and do not resist us. Thank you."

The voice was void of all emotions, and as they could hear the end of Stiles' sarcastic "-r welcome", it was clear that they could hear each other again. Stiles turned towards Derek and Jackson and made a gesture towards the door, and shrugged:

"Yeah, what they said." He then repeated some of the things he'd told Derek, for Scott's and Jackson's sake. Scott looked queasier with each sentence, while Jackson looked more and more furious. When Stiles was done, Jackson erupted:

"What the hell?! They can't do this to us, it's illegal!"

"Pretty sure they don't care about that, dude", Stiles said with a shrug. "In fact, I'll bet good money that they not only don't care that this is illegal, but laugh about it in the break room."

"What?"

"And they might – and this is just a theory, but I'm pretty confident I'm onto something here – they might actually be demons from hell. All of them. Or the devil."

"What are you –?"

"…and they SMELL!" He turned towards the door and made a rude gesture to the camera, then turned back to Scott and added, more silently: "I just … really don't like them."

Derek opened his mouth to ask, but didn't have time before Stiles visibly deflated.

"There's one more thing", he said. Hesitated. But before any of them had to tell him to continue, he took a breath and went on. "There was a woman. In one of the other cells. She was there when we came here but she didn't … she wasn't … We didn't talk. I don't even think she was all that aware that we were here. She died … later."

He abruptly stopped talking and refused to meet their gazes. Derek was the one who spoke first. "How did she die?"

Stiles licked his lips. "Slowly. She was lying on the floor the entire time. The speakers weren't on, so I couldn't hear her, but I watched her, and she looked like she was in pain. Like she was screaming. She tensed up at times and hit the glass and … yeah, it looked bad. She looked bad. And then she stopped moving. And then, some people came in and carried her out of there. Then someone else came in and cleaned up."

"Are you sure she died, though?" Scott asked.

Stiles nodded, jerkily. "Yeah. She looked straight at me and … didn't close her eyes when she stopped moving." A paus. "It was a while before they came in to get her."

None of them said anything for a while, then Stiles made a face. "They used a hose. When they cleaned up. Like …" He shook his head, but didn't finish the sentence.

"I'm sorry, Stiles." Scott sounded sincere and concerned, and looked at Stiles through the wall, even went so far as to put his knuckles to the glass. Stiles didn't say anything, but Derek could see the ghost of a half-smile on his lips, before he put his hand to the glass in the same spot. Scott beamed at him.

"Right, now when you've proved your love to each other, can we concentrate on what the hell we should do now?" Jackson managed to sound both bored and agitated at the same time, not a small feat. Stiles scoffed and shook his head at Scott.

"Don't listen to him, baby, he's just jealous of our love."

And while Derek was relieved to see Stiles so obviously pleased that his best friend was awake after a long time of uncertainty, he had to agree with Jackson on this one. Getting out was their first priority. He nodded a little.

"Jackson's right. Maybe we could-"

He was interrupted by – not surprisingly – Stiles:

"Surprise surprise, jackasses stick together. Listen guys, what do you think we could do here? They have us locked in cells where there are no handles on the doors, they've kept two werewolves and a lizard-douchebag unconscious for _days_ , they are no doubt listening in to everything we say and are most likely monitoring every move we make – yes, even the bucket –"

At this, Scott and Jackson both glanced around and noticed the water bottles and the bucket. Jackson immediately went to get water for himself while Stiles continued:

"– and you guys just woke up and you wanna hatch a plan? You can't even stand up straight, buddy, what are you gonna do? Faint in their general direction?"

What he didn't say, but what was clear from the tone of his voice and how he was gesturing, was: _We're fucked. There's no way out and we are probably going to die here, or worse._ It was frightening to see him like that. Scott apparently thought so too, because he fixed his big brown puppy eyes on Stiles and said:

"Hey, it's gonna be okay. You know? We'll figure it out. I don't know how or … but we'll … we'll figure it out. You and me and Derek and Jackson. We're all here now." The unsaid _you're not alone_ echoed in the cells, and Stiles drew a shaky breath, nodded unsteadily.

"Yeah, I … I'm sorry. It's just … It's been a long couple of days, or something like that. You know?"

"Yeah, I know."

Derek highly doubted that Scott knew, but it seemed to calm Stiles down somewhat, and strangely enough it managed to actually make Derek feel better, as well.

"Aw, you're so sweet I'm gonna puke." And cue Jackson, ruining the moment.

Stiles didn't even turn around to reply. "I wouldn't waste the water if I were you."

After that, they settled down somewhat. Scott and Stiles sat with their backs against the wall, next to each other with only a glass wall between them, and they were talking – surprisingly, about lots of light stuff. Sometimes, they were even laughing. Derek was sometimes included in the conversation, with a sarcastic remark from Stiles or a question from Scott. Jackson also commented, which was answered with either a scathing remark or completely ignored. Once or twice it evolved into a heated discussion which Jackson lost because Scott took Stiles' side and Derek refused to take any sides. It was … as calm as it can be when one is held prisoner, awaiting an uncertain fate.

None of them were feeling very strong at the moment, though, and it was clear to everyone. Stiles tried to cheer Scott up: "Yeah, well, you look like crap _now_ , but it's nothing a good meal and a good night's sleep can't fix, right?" Scott snorted, amused, but it brought up the topic of food and Derek – for the fourteenth time in the last hour, at least – ignored how hungry he was feeling. Jackson had no qualms about voicing his displeasure, though.

"Yeah, about that – don't they feed us?"

Stiles, who was the only one who was even close to being able to answer their questions about their captors, shrugged. "I've gotten a couple of meals."

It was only a little while after this exchange that they all looked up when they heard a scratching noise from the speakers. The noise was immediately followed by a horrible screeching sound, so loud and shrill that Derek covered his ears out of instinct. It didn't stop, and it _hurt_! He bent down and shook his head, closed his eyes and hissed through his teeth. It felt as if his head would explode, and he wouldn't be surprised if his ears were actually bleeding. He couldn't do anything but try to make himself as small as possible and press his hands to his ears, with all the power he had. It didn't help much.

He didn't actually notice when it stopped, for the ringing in his ears. When he realized it was over, he panted, carefully removed his hands from his ears and opened his eyes, slowly. He was dizzy and disoriented, and the first thing he saw was Jackson, who was in a similar state in the cell next to him.

"What the hell was that?" Jackson managed.

Derek opened his mouth to reply, smelled something and looked up, towards the door. There, just inside the door, was a paper plate with something that looked like … porridge? … on it, and beside it was two cheese sandwiches, which were absurdly placed on a paper napkin. Jackson had gotten the same food, and by his growl he wasn't pleased with it.

"Guys …?"

Scott didn't sound displeased, nor did he sound pleased. He sounded … scared. Derek looked over.

And realized that Stiles wasn't there anymore.


	2. In which time passes slowly

Author's note: Not beta'd.

Disclaimer: I own nothing relevant.

* * *

Scott, predictably, freaked out. He clawed at the door (with his very human fingers; Derek wondered if he, too, was too weak to Change) and hit the glass with his fists. When that didn't work, he yelled at the ceiling, asking questions and making demands. There was no answer, nothing changed. When he reached for the food – no doubt with the intention of throwing it at something – Derek intervened, with a single word:

"Stop."

And Scott, surprising all three of them, did. He turned and looked at Derek with despair in his eyes. Despair, and hope. Hope that Derek would have answers. That Derek would know what to do.

Derek didn't. But he had to do something.

"Don't waste the food. You need to regain your strength."

Even to his own ears it sounded … bad. Too little, too trivial. And Scott had never been good at doing what he was told … Or at least doing what he was told _by Derek_. But after a moment, Scott gave a short nod and sat down on the floor, with his back against the door, and pulled the food closer. Picked up a sandwich and started to eat. Like he understood what Derek _hadn't_ said: _Don't make any trouble right now. We are too weak and too uninformed. We need to bide our time, wait for a weakness we can use to our advantage. We need to be stronger for when we will get Stiles back and get out of here. Because we_ will _._

Maybe Scott _did_ understand. Maybe Derek had underestimated him. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance they could work together and actually escape this place. It seemed like an impossible task at the moment, but he felt a sliver of hope … which disappeared when he turned to the other wall, and found Jackson where he had last seen him; sitting on the floor and looking at his knees.

"Jackson."

Jackson looked up, and tried (and failed) to put his indifferent mask back in place. Derek saw right through it; Jackson was scared. Derek tried the same approach that had worked on Scott:

"Eat your food." _So that we will seem pliant and they won't think of us as a threat and we'll get our strength back and-_

"First of all", Jackson interrupted Derek's inner monologue, "don't tell me what to do. And secondly; _that_ is hardly food."

It was a strange kind of comfort to know that even held prisoner by evil scientists for largely unknown purposes and scared out of his mind, Jackson was still able to be an annoying ass without much effort. It even made him sit up a little straighter. Derek decided to push a little more. He flashed his eyes (which took more effort than it should have – what had they been drugged with, exactly?) and lowered his voice to an almost-growl:

"Jackson."

Jackson actually sneered at him. "What, Derek, what are you going to do about it? Huff and puff and blow the wall down? I'd like to see you try. You may have bit me but I don't have to do what you tell me."

 _Teenagers._ Derek silently vowed to himself never to have kids, but congratulated himself on making Jackson show a little more fighting spirit – even if it was currently directed towards himself. Scott chose this moment to intervene:

"Why do you always have to be like that, Jackson? If you haven't noticed, we're in this together. Stiles is gone and we don't know what's happening to him, and we don't know what's going to happen to us, and basically there's just a whole lot of things we don't know. But we can't do anything right now. And we have food and water, for now. Stiles said we shouldn't waste the water, and like Derek said, we shouldn't waste the food. Who knows when they'll feed us again, right?"

Derek looked from Scott to Jackson. Neither one of them moved or said anything for several seconds, until Scott took a bite from the sandwich he was holding and added:

"Besides, the sandwiches aren't even that bad.

Derek made a slightly amused noise that was more of an exhale than a laugh, but Scott looked at him and smiled a little. Waved the hand with the sandwich and pointed at the food beside him. Derek shook his head slightly, but went to examine his own food. Sandwiches are sandwiches, you can't really fail with those, so instead he took a tentative spoonful of porridge. It wasn't good, but he'd had worse. He mentally shrugged and settled down to eat. Only when he'd started eating did he notice how much he was starving. He had to actually force himself to chew once in a while, and he felt better with every bite.

Jackson watched them both with disdain, but eventually he walked to the food in his cell. He made a big show out of glaring at it before he tasted it, and letting everyone know exactly what he thought of this so-called "meal". Derek didn't know if it was him riling Jackson up or Scott's little motivational speech, or maybe a combination of the two, but Jackson ate his food, and Derek counted it as a win.

Eating was a quiet affair, not to mention quick. It didn't take long for them to finish what they'd been given, and once they'd finished, none of them seemed to know what to say or do, with the result that none of them said or did anything. Derek avoided looking at the other cells, although he was very aware of the people in them, and instead seated himself as far away from the door as he could, while glaring at the camera above it. Jackson, after a while, did the same. They only broke their stare once; looking the other way when Scott went to use the bucket by the door, and it was more of a need to avoid any unnecessary uncomfortable situations than out of respect for his privacy. When Scott also sat down along the back wall of his cell, they resumed their glaring, and Scott – wordlessly – joined in.

A few minutes passed. Then Derek saw Scott move from the corner of his eye, and glanced over. Scott was bent over, hiding his face in his hands, and his whole body shook. For a horrible moment, Derek thought that he was crying, and panicked because he didn't know how to deal with it.

"Scott?"

Scott looked up at this, and it was suddenly very clear that he wasn't crying. At all. His eyes shone, and when he met Derek's eyes he took a deep breath just to let out a bellowing laugh. At Derek's blank look, his laughter increased.

Derek turned around and gave Jackson a look of disbelief, which Jackson returned with a raised eyebrow.

"There's something seriously wrong with you, McCall", he muttered and shook his head.

That made Scott laugh even more, and when he had finally calmed down enough to form words, he gasped:

"You don't understand … We were sitting there, all of us, identical looks on our faces …"

He gestured towards his own face and dissolved into giggles. Jackson huffed impatiently:

"So?"

Scott was now holding his own stomach, tears of mirth running down his face. He looked his fellow captives in the eye and answered:

"Can you imagine what Stiles would have said if he saw us?"

Jackson muttered something inaudible, but Derek – impossibly – felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards in an almost-smile. He _could_ imagine what Stiles would have said. Scott, damn him, didn't miss his almost-smile, and that made him crack up even more (and if his laugh was tinted with hysteria, no one mentioned it – not even Jackson). Derek allowed himself a sound of amusement in Scott's direction before he turned his gaze towards the camera again, resuming his glaring (but not turning it all the way up, this time) and listening to Scott's laughter die down.

* * *

Time passed, and since there was no way of telling the time there, it did so slowly. They didn't speak much, just a few words here and there and a biting comment now and then. None of them mentioned their current situation, and none of them mentioned Stiles again. Eventually, Scott lay down on the floor and fell asleep. Derek turned to Jackson and nodded his head.

"Maybe we should … too."

He cringed a bit at his own voice, and tensed in anticipation of the "don't tell me what to do!"'s or "who are you, my mother?"'s that were sure to follow. To his surprise, all he got was a pair of raised eyebrows, before Jackson curled up in the corner closest to Derek's cell and rested his head on his arms.

Derek sat down in the same corner, so he had his back to the wall and could see Jackson in the corner of his eye. It was comforting, in a way, to be so close that they'd have been able to touch if there hadn't been a glass wall between them. This way, he could also keep his eyes on Scott. Scott, who hadn't felt the need to curl up in a corner, but had stretched out on the floor of his cell. Scott, who looked so calm when he slept. It was a little strange to see him like this, considering the situation they found themselves in. But who was Derek to judge? If they could get some rest, that was a good thing. He closed his eyes to shut out the bright lights, and took a deep breath. He was sure he'd be awake as soon as anyone tried to open the door, and thus tried to relax his body and go to sleep.

Of course, he didn't fall asleep at once. He couldn't seem to get comfortable, he was tense and disoriented and worried, and all thoughts in his head jumbled together into a mess he couldn't sort out. He noticed when Jackson nodded off, a while later, when his breaths seemed to even out and he relaxed his posture slightly. More time passed after that, and eventually he fell asleep, more out of exhaustion than anything else.

He didn't sleep well. There were dreams, strange images that he didn't know if he saw for real or not, and he startled awake a couple of time to imaginary sounds. Waking up in the brightly-lit cell was almost worse than the dreams, so he forced himself to shut his eyes again and fall back into an uneasy slumber.

When he woke up for the third or fourth time, an unknown amount of time later, he only intended to glance around the cell to confirm that he was still there, but he noticed movement to his left and opened his eyes fully. When he turned and saw what went on in Jackson's cell, he was awake and up and banging on the glass before he had formed a coherent thought.

Jackson was lying on the floor, motionless. It was clear that he was not just asleep, because two people dressed in white were bent over him, while a third was kneeling on the floor, seemingly taking a blood sample. Had he simply slept, he would surely have woken up by now.

"Hey! Stop it!"

Derek screamed at them and hit the glass, but they didn't even acknowledge him. That's when he realized that he couldn't hear them, either. The speakers were off, which was why he hadn't heard them come in. He hit the glass again, in frustration. No reaction. A part of him wanted to scream obscenities at them, but what good would it to when they couldn't hear him? Another, bigger, part of him wanted to break the glass and jump in there, transform and rip them to pieces, but he knew that he couldn't. It didn't stop him from wishing it, though; wishing it so hard he could almost taste their blood on his tongue.

A minute later, the white-clad people had their samples, and left the room. Jackson was left sprawled out on the floor, unconscious but breathing (Derek couldn't hear it, but he could see Jackson's chest rising and falling, and it calmed him down a little). What had they done to him to knock him out? He'd have to wait for Jackson to wake up before he asked him.

A glance to the other side showed that Stiles' cell was still empty, and that Scott was still sleeping on the floor. Sleeping, or had he also been sedated? Had Derek been sedated, without being aware of it? He ran his hands over his arms, looking for something, anything, to tell him if they'd taken any samples from him recently. Nothing. Either they hadn't, or they had and he had healed already. He couldn't tell.

He couldn't go back to sleep. Everything was bright and sterile and smelled wrong and sounded wrong and _was_ wrong, and he couldn't do anything. He sat there, with his back to the wall, with a sleeping (or possibly sedated) fellow abductee on either side, and he had never felt more powerless.

* * *

It must have been a few hours, at least, when Scott woke up. He didn't wake up gradually, but shot upright from his spot on the floor, frantically looking around. When he saw Derek, his face fell. He lifted his eyebrows slightly and said something, and Derek shrugged:

"I can't hear you."

He instantly regretted saying it out loud, as Scott obviously couldn't hear him either from the way he furrowed his brow and glanced to the corner of the room where the speaker was. He saw Scott say something else but couldn't read his lips, but as Scott turned away slightly and didn't make eye-contact, he was sure it wasn't meant for him anyway. He had entertained the thought of voicing a few chosen words of his own, at the situation in general and the people who held them there in particular, but in the end opted not to. Because how would that help them? He didn't disapprove of Scott venting, though, as long as it didn't worsen their situation. A voice inside his head whispered _how could this possibly get worse?,_ but he quickly shut it up, knowing from experience that asking a question like that was tempting fate. And fate wasn't too fond of him on a normal day.

There was nothing for them to do but wait, and it was extremely frustrating. He was still feeling the effects of whatever drug they'd put in his system to be able to bring him here, he had slept badly, and enough time had passed that he was hungry again. He still had some water, but he didn't touch it since he wasn't sure when – or if – he would be given more.

Scott got up after a while and started walking around his cell. A minute or so afterwards, Derek stood up too, stretching his legs. It felt good to stretch, but it made him long for a run. He wanted to run as fast as he could, away from this cell and these people and this whole situation, to just run through the trees with the sounds of the forest surrounding him instead of the low whirring of the lights above. Since he couldn't run, though, he started doing push-ups. He was still much weaker than what was normal for him, but it felt good to feel his body obey him. He concentrated on the simple movements, on his own breaths and his own heartbeat (after all, there wasn't anything else to concentrate on), and he felt himself starting to sweat after some time. He didn't stop. He didn't count, either, he just continued, until his mind was blank and his muscles ached (a good kind of ache, this time).

When he finally stopped, he looked up and to the sides. Jackson still hadn't moved an inch, but Scott was also on the floor, doing push-ups as well. A part of Derek was pleased that he'd follow his example, and Scott looked a bit sheepish when he glanced up after he'd finished and found Derek watching him. Then he gave a little nod, as if to say _we're in this together_ , and started doing sit-ups. Derek watched him for a second, then shook his head slightly and did the same.

They had both finished a basic (for werewolves, that is) workout and had some water – Derek still saved half a bottle, though – when he noticed movement to his left.

Jackson was moving.

He rolled onto his side and winced, put his hand to his head and said something – all without opening his eyes. Not getting a reply, he eventually opened his eyes. He squinted at the bright lights overhead, and shielded his eyes with his hand. Then he searched for the others. It seemed to take him a while to focus, but eventually his eyes locked onto Derek, and he once again said something. Derek shook his head and pointed at the ceiling. Jackson looked irritated and said something (that looked suspiciously like "give me a fucking break") before he pushed himself up on his elbows and scooted back so his back was once again against the wall. Then he turned to Derek and mouthed, slowly:

"What. The. Hell. Happened?"

Derek debated whether to engage in a game of charades or try to communicate with speech, and swiftly decided on the second option. He mouthed slowly, too, so Jackson could read his lips:

"They took samples from you." He gestured to his own arm. "Samples. Blood."

Jackson winced and looked anything but happy, and Derek continued:

"You were out. What happened?"

Jackson shook his head. "I don't know. I was sleeping. I woke up now. Head hurts like …" A grimace, and something that was probably a curse.

"Did they go into the room? Did you see them? Hear them?"

Again, Jackson shook his head. "Nothing. Just …" He paused and frowned. "Maybe … There was a smell."

"What kind of smell?" Derek spoke out loud now, but didn't care.

A shrug. "I don't know." Then something Derek didn't understand.

"What?"

Jackson opened his mouth to repeat himself, and suddenly the speakers were back on, and Derek was ashamed to admit that he flinched at the sudden sound:

"- might have imagined it."

"Hey! The speakers are back on!" That was Scott's voice, sounding relieved, and when Derek briefly turned around he saw Scott with a smile on his face.

Jackson ignored him, and said (possibly for a third time):

"Like I said, I was asleep. Maybe there was no smell, maybe I just imagined it."

He looked down as he was talking, as if imagining things was something to be ashamed of. Derek gave a brief thought of his own nightmares and then something clicked in his mind. Sleeping, and maybe a smell. Gas.

"Gas", he said aloud. Jackson looked up. "Maybe it was a gas. You were really out of it – there were three of them in there with you, taking your blood."

Jackson rubbed his arm and looked anything but pleased, but didn't say anything. Scott did, though:

"What? What happened?"

Derek dragged a hand over his face and prepared to explain it, when without warning they were suddenly hit by that horrible screeching sound again. Derek instantly curled up and tried to protect his ears, gritting his teeth against the pain in his skull. He was just as paralyzed as the last time, but this time he thought he heard Scott scream, and with much effort he lifted his head and forced his eyes open (when had he closed them?), just in time to see the door to his cell close. Something was by the door. Food? There was no time to think about it, because the door to the cell to his right was open, and there were people there. The sound was impossible to escape and there were no thoughts in his head and he was in pain and it wouldn't stop why wouldn't it stop but there were people in the cell next to his and there hadn't been people there in a while why were they there now?

Suddenly they were gone and the screeching stopped, and Derek blinked against the lights. The sudden silence made the ringing in his ears almost as painful as the screeching had been just moments ago, but there was also something else. Jackson and Scott were groaning and Derek himself was panting as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.

The people … had they been there? But they'd disappeared, just like that! Had he imagined them? He looked towards the other cell, but the door was closed again. Only …

He spotted him at the same time as Scott did; lying prone on his stomach on the floor of his cell, face turned away. Scott drew in a breath, and Derek's heart skipped a beat.

Stiles was back in his cell. And he wasn't moving.


	3. In which one returns

Author's note: Not beta'd.

Disclaimer: I own nothing relevant.

* * *

"Stiles? Stiles!" Scott had looked relieved for half a second, before worry took over. Now he was on his knees with his hands on the glass, as close as he could possibly get to Stiles, and he didn't take his eyes off his friend. "Come on, Stiles, wake up!"

Stiles didn't wake up, though. Scott continued calling to him in an effort to get some kind of reaction, but Stiles didn't move at all.

Jackson cleared his throat. "May… maybe they've shut off the sound to his cell, and he can't hear us."

Yeah, as if that was the reason Stiles wasn't moving. Stupid. Derek rolled his eyes and turned around, prepared to tell Jackson exactly that, words already forming on his tongue … but Jackson wasn't looking arrogant, or looking at Derek at all. He was looking past Derek, towards the non-moving teenager on the floor in the cell next to him, and he looked queasy. He kept clenching and unclenching his jaw, and blinked rapidly a few times. Derek realized, with a start, that Jackson was worried. Afraid. So he nodded slowly, and said:

"Yeah. Maybe."

He didn't manage to make it sound like he really believed that, though, and Jackson closed his eyes and dragged a hand over his face, shook his head and leaned against the glass.

"This is so fucked up."

That, Derek could agree with. "Yeah, _definitely_."

Stiles was lying on his stomach, his face turned towards Scott, so Derek could only see the back of his head. His hoodie was gone, and he looked pale and scrawny in his dark T-shirt. There was some bruising around his wrists. His feet were bare.

How long had he been gone? And what the hell had they done to him during that time?

Derek cleared his throat. "Scott. How does he look?"

Scott didn't move from his place by the glass, but he did look up briefly to meet Derek's eyes for a moment before he once again focused on his friend.

"Um. P-pale. He's not moving. Bruises on his wrists. He's breathing though, I can see that."

"No other visible injuries?"

"No."

That didn't mean anything, of course, but it was all the answers they would get until Stiles woke up (and he would, _he would_ ) and told them himself. At least he was alive and back with them – sort of.

"What do they want him for?" Jackson's voice, on the verge of breaking. "He's not a … He's just Stiles! There's nothing special about him!"

Wrong thing to say, judging by Scott's sudden growl. Not that Jackson seemed to notice, as he started walking around in his cell.

"If we're here because of what we are, whatever they think that is, then what the hell do they want with him? He's not a … unless you …?"

A nod towards Derek, who took a step back and frowned. "No."

"Well then!" Jackson's voice had a hint of hysteria to it. "He's just Stiles, and nothing more, and they _still_ took him, and now he's not moving. And we're trapped in here, and what are we-"

He abruptly slammed his jaw shut and bit down so hard that it had to have hurt, and squeezed his eyes shut. Took a step back until his back hit the wall and slid down to sit on the floor. Held his head in his hands, and didn't look up.

Neither Derek nor Scott spoke. After all, what was there to say?

They sat in silence for what must have been hours. Scott didn't move from the glass, and only occasionally looked up from where his eyes were trained on Stiles unmoving form. Jackson hadn't moved since his outburst, but stayed where he was, staring at nothing. Derek didn't feel inclined to break the silence either, but he did venture to the door to collect the food and water bottles that had been left there. He brought them to the other side of the room, but didn't eat or drink anything.

He was acutely aware of that both Scott and Jackson had also been provided with food and drink, but that the space inside Stiles' door was empty. He didn't want to think about what that could mean.

There was absolutely nothing to be done, and he felt utterly useless. Was this how Stiles had felt for days before they woke up?

There was no warning before the lights went out. One moment, everything was lit up like it had been since they had woken up in here, and the next there was darkness. It didn't make a sound, so Derek's first thought was that he had nodded off. When he realized that his eyes were actually open but that he still couldn't see, his heartbeat sped up.

"Scott?"

No answer. They must have shut off the speakers, too. His pulse increased in pace even more, and he started sweating. Standing up, he backed into a corner and almost stumbled over a water bottle. When he had his back to the wall he stretched out his arms on either side of him; wall on one side, glass on the other. The dark was oppressing; there was not a hint of light anywhere, nothing that could help even his enhanced sight make out anything in the darkness. No sounds besides his own shallow breathing and the blood running through his veins.

His senses were on high alert, but there was nothing to sense. Still, he stayed where he was, flinching at imagined sounds, for … an eternity, maybe. There was no way to tell time. After a while he tried counting his breaths, but he couldn't concentrate on numbers. So he stood there. Sat there. Okay, so evidently he had somehow ended up sitting down. He didn't remember it. Was he asleep? Had he been asleep? He didn't know.

He thought a lot, about a lot of things. He spoke to himself (to his family), because hearing his own voice was better than nothing. His voice cracked, and he cried. The tears dried on his cheeks, and he sat in silence. Thought more. Spoke more. Maybe he slept. And he had no idea for how long.

When the lights came back, it was as abrupt as when they had been shut off, with the difference that his eyes had gotten used to the darkness, and the lights _hurt_. He yelped and pressed his hands to his eyes, and then eased them off very, very slowly. The cells were as before, nothing had changed. Still the door (shut, locked), still the walls (white, sterile), still the glass. Still Jackson, curled up in a corner, shielding his eyes. Still Stiles-

Stiles had moved. Or been moved. He was now lying with his back against the glass that separated his cell from Derek's, just a tiny distance away, yet unreachable. Scott, who to his credit didn't seem to have moved from the spot he'd been in when it went dark, blinked against the light and noticed the same thing.

"Stiles!"

Oh! The speakers were back on. Derek was standing before he realized it, and locked eyes with Scott.

"What happened?" Jackson said, with a raspy voice. Derek didn't turn to look at him, instead he focused all of his attention on Stiles.

"Scott, how does he look?"

Scott, who could see Stiles' face.

"He's still pale. Still breathing. He's … Derek, he moved!"

Derek saw. Stiles moved his head a little, and curled his hand closer to his body. Then came a low moan, and Derek exhaled loudly. Scott smiled brightly and pressed up against the glass.

"That's right, Stiles, wake up!"

Another low moan was his answer. But Stiles didn't wake up, just kept making little movements and sounds of distress. Scott's smile faded into worry.

"Something's wrong."

Stiles tensed up and whined. He clenched his hands and drew a breath, then he groaned.

"He's in pain. Derek, he's in pain. What do I do? Derek?"

But Derek had no answer. There was nothing any of them could do, but to watch Stiles and listen to him making increasingly distressing sounds.

"What's going on? What's happening to him?" Jackson. No one answered him.

"Stiles!" Scott yelled and gave Derek a brief nod. "His eyes are open." Then he turned his attention back at his friend. "Wake up, Stiles! Come on … That's right, buddy, come on ..." A tentative smile on his face, which froze when Stiles gasped for breath and then screamed.

Scott all but threw himself at the glass. Derek had to fight every instinct he had so he wouldn't do the same. The scream was short and not very loud, but it was followed by Stiles curling up on the floor, and it was clear he was in pain. His second scream was muffled somewhat. The third wasn't.

"Help him!" Scott cried, and Derek glared at him in anger, because _how the hell would he be able to help_ , only to discover that Scott wasn't talking to him. He was turned towards the camera and was pleading with their captors to help, to do something. It was almost even more heartbreaking than watching Stiles, and Derek had to look away. He turned to Jackson, who was sitting on the floor in his cell with his hands covering his ears and his eyes tightly shut, whispering "Stop it, stop it, stop it" under his breath.

Stiles screamed again, and Derek could feel his control slipping. For the first time since he woke up in this place, he felt a tiny wave of strength returning, just enough for him to flash his eyes and growl. Scott looked over, and his eyes flashed golden as well.

Another scream from Stiles had both Derek and Scott turning to the cameras and growling, and Jackson ran to the door and started banging on it with his fists. Derek threw one of his empty water bottles at the camera in frustration – it was terribly unsatisfactory.

And then they shut the speakers off. The sudden silence was as grating as ever, especially as he could still see everything that was going on. Jackson was still banging on the door, Scott was still gesturing at the camera, Stiles was still on the floor of his cell, screaming.

Derek refused to admit that he was relieved not to be able to hear his screams.

That not-relief twisted into a much more uncomfortable feeling when, a while later, Stiles twitched and his hand hit the glass wall behind him. Derek thought of the other human that had supposedly been here. The one Stiles had watched die.

"I don't want to watch you die."

He started a little, because he hadn't realized that he'd said it out loud, and his voice was loud in the silence. Stiles jerked again, and ended up on his back with his face to Derek. Stiles eyes were open, but not really seeing anything. Derek still got close to the glass, and tried (and failed) to school his features into something calming. Just in case.

Another shudder ran through Stiles' body, and he opened his mouth and screamed again. Derek screamed with him, this time. And the next time. And the next. Gradually, his own screams turned into roars, and he knew his eyes were blazing. He was going to kill them for doing this; for taking them away from their home, for locking them up, for drugging them and causing this much pain. He was going to rip the skin off their bodies and crush every bone, he was going to make them pay. He was going to _kill_ them.

This was the promise he roared out in his cell, in time with Stiles' silent screams. He was full of rage and frustration and power, and if they just opened that door – if they just came in the room – they were dead. He would-

Stiles stopped moving. Derek went quiet in the middle of a roar and whipped his head around, and Stiles wasn't moving. No jerks, no spasms, and his face was lax. He looked relaxed, and Derek was almost swept away by a wave of crushing relief, because it had stopped. Stiles was okay, he was awake and not in pain and things would be okay. Stiles was okay. He was-

He wasn't breathing. Stiles wasn't breathing. His eyes were open but unseeing, his face was lax and he wasn't moving anymore because …

Relief turned to horror so fast that Derek didn't even have time to realize what he was doing until he found himself clawing at the glass and howling. No!

Distantly, he saw Scott, but he was just a blurry movement somewhere behind Stiles, who was lying so still and who was staring at nothing. No, no, no!

Not being able to get through the glass, and overcome with the need to destroy something, _kill someone_ , he threw himself at the door. No, no, no, no, no!

There was a hiss, and he thought _gas!_ but he didn't stop, couldn't stop, because Stiles had stopped and Stiles should never stop and- NO.

Everything was red with rage, and he was barely aware of his meagre surroundings. Only the need to rip something or someone apart. The rage got hazy, but not less red. When his own clawed hands blurred in front of his face he jerked backwards and resumed his clawing at the glass. Stiles hadn't moved. Stiles was still staring with unseeing eyes. Stiles was still- NONONONONO!

He was on his knees now, and his howl was more of a whine. A movement, at the edge of his blurry vision. A door opened. The door to Stiles' cell. People in white (a lighter shade of red) came in. A new spark of hate gave him the boost he needed to throw himself to the glass one more time, but the hissing sound continued and he couldn't focus, and he fell to the floor.

With his last ounce of energy, he focused on Stiles' face, and reached out to the glass. Red shadows came closer, and he couldn't stop them. The last thing he saw was a flash of something other than the red, and he thought

 _Scott?_

and then

 _wait_


	4. In which they wake up again

Author's note: Not beta'd.

Disclaimer: I own nothing relevant.

* * *

Waking up was _nothing_ like trying to swim ashore through an ocean of mud. He woke up with a start, only his body wasn't quite as fast, which resulted in him rolling over to the side, gasping and blinking frantically to make the stars he was seeing disappear, and trying to make his tingling limbs do what he wanted them to (stand up, get out, kill someone).

A few heartbeats later, he shook his head and stood up on shaky legs. Reached out to steady himself on the bloody glass next to him, and at the same time as it registered that there was _blood on the glass_ , he noticed that the cells in front of him were empty. No Stiles. No Scott. And, a quick look over his shoulder revealed that Jackson was also gone.

Panic crept up his spine and set up camp in his throat, when he dragged his hand over the bloody glass and realized that the blood was on the other side; in Stiles' cell. There was a lot of it. Smeared on the glass, then splattered over the floor, leading to the door. The door, which was ajar.

The door in Scott's cell was also partly open.

Derek's mind whited out for a second, and before he was even aware of it, he was at the door in his own cell, ripping it open with clawed hands – and startling in surprise when it was almost ripped off its invisible hinges with the force he used.

He was … free? What was going on?

He had expected a hallway, with easy access to the other cells, but this was nothing like that. He stood in the doorway, in a small closet-like room with a staircase only two steps away from the door. Shelves lined one wall, but he didn't care; the stairs were the way out of here.

The stairway ended in a deserted corridor, kind of like the one he had been expecting. The corridor was fully lit and lined with doors, all of which were open – some halfway to being ripped apart. There was blood leading from the door next to him and down the corridor, but Derek suddenly didn't really mind, because it didn't smell like Stiles' blood.

Still, he followed the trail. Everything was silent – _too_ silent – and the only thing he heard was the hum of the electricity in the walls and the fluorescent lights overhead. No heartbeats, no-one breathing. It was way better than being in a cell, though.

Being out of the cell meant that he was bombarded with smells that he hadn't felt in a long time; smells of other people. It made him growl, though, because they were all unfamiliar to him. He was on high alert when he rounded a corner and saw that the blood trail ended at a pair of closed elevator doors. He pressed the button to open the doors and noticed absentmindedly that he was still sporting claws.

The soft _ding_ of the elevator when the doors opened made the sight in front of him even more unreal, and for a second he wondered if he was experiencing some kind of drugged hallucination.

The elevator looked like a slaughterhouse. Two white-clad bodies were lying face-down on the floor, in a pool of their own blood. Only a few corners of their clothes were still white; the rest was red – red like half the surfaces of the elevator. Even a big part of the ceiling was covered in (and still dripping) blood.

Derek knew he should probably have been horrified. By the sight of two dead bodies, by the overwhelming smell of blood, by all that he'd been through. But something in him, something that had been thirsting for blood, just settled down somewhat at the sight of it, content for the time being. So he simply stared at the mess for a couple of seconds, and then he stepped into the elevator and pressed the only button there was. Mindful of not touching the bodies, he placed himself in the middle of the elevator, facing the door. Not caring that his bare feet were standing on a floor covered with still warm blood.

He wiggled his toes and resisted a strong urge to hum to himself as the elevator moved upwards.

Another soft and friendly _ding_ , and the elevator doors opened to the sight of another dead body, this one wearing a blood-soaked suit. Derek barely glanced at it, focusing instead on the bloody footprints – two sets, from bare feet – that were leading down the hall. He followed them; when he glanced back he saw that he had left his own trail. He wasn't worried, though. If anyone came after him, they'd die, too.

It was strangely calming, in the surreal situation he was in, to imagine murder in the near future, and a small part of him was worried that he'd gone insane. The larger part of him didn't particularly care either way.

The other footprints were further apart from each other, and some were blurry as if the person leaving them had been in a hurry. Derek didn't feel any need to rush though. He dimly realized that perhaps he should speed things up since he didn't know what was going on, but he took his time. There were a few doors lining the hallway, doors that the other people had ran past. Derek opened every single one of them.

A lab, empty.

Another lab, also empty.

A supply room, empty.

A bathroom, empty.

Another lab, smaller than the others. Also empty.

An office. Derek inhaled sharply. It wasn't the sight of anything unusual that made him gasp, because it was an ordinary office with a desk and two chairs and a computer and some shelves and a window with ugly curtains. It was the sight of the window – Derek walked towards it and looked out. He saw trees in the dim light outside, he saw gravel, he saw the back part of a parked car. Slowly, he put his hand on the glass, and pushed on it slightly. A crack appeared, and he grinned.

 _Freedom._

He didn't break the window – knowing that he _could_ was enough. He had a way out of here. First, though, he needed to find –

He heard something, and was instantly alert. Footsteps, coming closer. He slid to the door of the office and pressed his body to the wall. Someone breathing; someone's heartbeats, the sound of fabric against fabric.

Crouching down, eyes flashing and claws and fangs ready to tear into whoever came at him, Derek leapt out into the hallway and roared. Jackson, because of course it was Jackson skidding to a halt there, hissed (were his hands claws, too?) and said, quite unnecessary:

"It's me."

He straightened up, and seemingly uncaring of Derek being wolfed-out, he nodded towards where he came from.

"We need you."

He turned and started walking back, without a hint of hesitation; as if he knew that Derek would follow. And somehow, _this_ was what got to Derek and made him realize that yes, this was really happening. It was not just a hallucination – they were really out of their cells, those people were really dead, and his feet were really covered with other people's blood – because Jackson's arrogant assumption that he would just follow, without question, was so _Jackson_ , and nothing he could hallucinate. It had to be real.

"What's going on?" Derek asked, and there was a pleased feeling in his chest when Jackson twitched at the sound of his voice and looked over his shoulder at him.

"It's Stiles." The pleased feeling disappeared. "He … We found him."

Cold dread settled in Derek's stomach as he was assaulted with the memories of what he'd seen just before he'd passed out; Stiles, unmoving and not breathing, face lax, unseeing eyes staring straight ahead. Dead to the world, dead to … _Dead_.

"-erek. Derek."

A hand on his shoulder, and his growl (because apparently he was growling) turned into a snarl as he swiped at the owner of the hand with a clawed hand. Jackson jumped away before he got clawed, and glared at him.

"Listen, Derek!"

Derek waited. Jackson said nothing. Derek's eyebrows drew together, and Jackson raised his.

" _Listen!_ "

Derek suddenly realized what Jackson meant, when he heard a voice in the distance. Scott's voice. Scott's voice, saying:

"Hey Stiles, hey, hey … it's okay, it's gonna be okay, Stiles, come on …"

And Derek was running. He didn't know what he expected to see when he rounded a corner and jumped over a door that had been ripped off the frame and thrown to the floor – but it wasn't this.

 _This_ , being what had to be a break room, with four people in it. A woman, lying on the kitchen counter with a snapped neck. A man, in a still-growing pool of blood by an overturned table. Scott, crouched low and not even looking up when Derek entered, reaching out with his hand towards the corner, where …

 _what_

… Stiles. Stiles was in the corner, hunched in on himself and shaking his head. He was holding his head, not looking up, and his hands and arms – most of him, actually – were covered in blood.

Derek let out a loud breath – in relief to see Stiles alive or in shock of seeing the blood, he couldn't tell. It made Scott glance back and give him a warning glare, and growl. Or, wait. The growling wasn't coming from Scott.

Derek could feel Jackson's hand on his shoulder again, holding him back when he made to take a step forward, but this time he didn't shake it off. Instead he watched as Scott turned back towards Stiles, and inched a little bit closer, hands in front of him and unthreatening.

And then Stiles looked up.

Derek couldn't help gasping. Stiles eyes were yellow, and he snarled to show off fangs, and when Scott didn't halt his slow approach, Stiles swiped out his hand – _which had claws on it_ – and would have clawed Scott's face off, if Scott hadn't had the presence of mind to back up at the last second.

For a few moments, no one moved.

Derek was back to feeling like this had to be a dream, or a hallucination, or … whatever, just _not real_. This couldn't be real. Stiles wasn't a werewolf, Stiles was _human_ , Stiles was …

Actually, Stiles _still_ looked human, apart from the claws and the fangs and the eyes. And when he looked closer, he saw that the eyes were actually not quite like a werewolf's; there was something off, something like …

He surreptitiously glanced to his side, where Jackson stood.

Something like the slitted pupils that Jackson had when he was transformed.

But the fangs were werewolf, and the claws were werewolf … and the rest of it? The rest of it was just Stiles, who had drawn himself into the corner again, with a clawed hand out, warning Scott not to come any closer.

Derek thought _fuck it_ , and took a step closer. "Stiles?"

His voice was louder than Scott's had been, and he winced. Stiles, though, didn't – but he focused his (unnervingly yellow) eyes on Derek and _hissed_.

Derek paused. And then he snorted out a laugh.

Jackson and Scott stared at him as if he'd put on a tutu and declared that he was a pineapple. That made him snort again, and he put a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes for a second.

"Sorry, sorry … it's just …" A very uncharacteristic and slightly distressed giggle. "It's been a weird couple of days."

He shook his head slowly and decided to just roll with it. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and opened his eyes, ready to deal with whatever this was … and was met with the unlikely sight of Stiles – still with fangs and claws and freaky lizard eyes – _smiling_.

Not a big smile, and kind of shaky, but a smile nonetheless. A second later:

"Tell me about it."

Scott's head whirled around and he met Stiles' eyes, and a second later he had thrown himself at his friend. Derek took a step forward to stop him, and Jackson made a noise of protest, but Scott just threw his arms around Stiles and held on while burying his face in the crook of Stiles' neck. When Stiles didn't bite his face off or put his hand through his chest, Derek relaxed.

A few seconds passed in which no one moved, and then the moment was – as usual – ruined by Jackson:

"Okay, we get it, you're gay for each other – get a room."

Scott ( _and Stiles_ , which – weird) turned to Jackson and growled, but it was half-hearted and honestly the most normal thing to happen in a while, so Derek just lifted an eyebrow.

"Stiles", he said. "What happened?"

He gestured around himself in the little room, managing to encompass everything from the overturned table and the dead bodies, to the whole compound. Stiles hissed and made a face, and gently pulled himself out of Scott's embrace. Scott settled down next to him, though, their shoulders bumping together, and Stiles smiled a little at him before he met Derek's eyes and said:

"I'm not sorry. About them."

He jutted his chin out at the bodies, but his voice was unsteady and he didn't look at them.

"I am", said Derek and watched Stiles flinch. "I'm sorry that I didn't get to kill them myself."

Stiles relaxed into Scott's shoulder again, and his eyes seemed less yellow. Derek asked again:

"What happened?"

Stiles had looked down, and was watching his claws slowly retract into normal fingers, and he seemed fascinated by it, so Derek turned his questioning eyes to Scott, who shrugged and said:

"I woke up, and there was blood in Stiles' cell. I panicked, and went for the door, which was open … and I heard a scream, so I ran up those stairs, right? And, um, there was blood and the elevator was closing and … Well, I had to wait for it, 'cause there were no stairs. I checked. Anyway, Jackson showed up, and we took the elevator, which was … you know."

"Gory", Jackson supplied. Scott nodded and continued:

"We got up here, and heard … someone … and that led us here, where we found Stiles and … well, he wasn't himself at the moment –"

Stiles snorted.

"– and he didn't seem to recognize us, so we figured we'd go and find you."

"I volunteered", Jackson added.

"And here we are", Scott finished with a shrug.

That didn't clear things up, and Derek frowned. "Stiles …"

Stiles made a face. "I don't know! I …"

He kept staring at his hands, now back to normal (although still red with blood) while he continued:

"They took me from the cell and strapped me to a table. Gave me a few injections, I don't know what was in them but my guess? Some part of you guys, which … ew. Anyway, there was … I don't remember, I was pretty fuzzy there for a while. I know I yelled at them but then I was on the floor and just yelling, and it …"

His voice got quiet. "… it hurt."

Derek and Scott glanced at each other, both remembering Stiles' screams.

"Um, so I woke up", Stiles continued, "and there were people there and everything hurt so badly and I didn't want them to touch me so I … I killed them."

He stared straight ahead, and nothing showed on his face. "They got out through the door and tried to do something … maybe lock it, or call of help or something, but I kinda ripped the thing from the wall and. I killed two of them there. Another one was injured, but he ran up the stairs. I followed. He met someone else up there, they ran for the … for the elevator. I caught up. And, the elevator … well, you saw."

"Yeah."

"Anyway, there were two people outside the elevator. One got away. I followed her. It was that one."

He pointed at the dead woman without looking at her.

"And then you guys showed up."

His smile was brittle, and he was shaking. Derek prepared to say something soothing, but Stiles spoke again:

"The funny thing is that I was kind of _aware_ of what I was doing. Sure, I mean, I went all _grrr_ like you guys do, and everything fucking hurt and I was scared shitless, but I was also so angry and I _meant_ to go after them, I think. I didn't …"

He glanced over at Scott, and said, apologetically: "I'm not sorry. I'm sorry."

Jackson huffed beside Derek. "That doesn't even make sense. And even if it did, do you think we could postpone this until we've out of here? We are still in the same building we were held captive in, you know."

Derek glanced around. The clock on the wall showed 4.45. Probably in the morning, judging from the lack of people around. He squared his shoulders. Finally, something that could be _done_.

"He's right. We should get out of here. There's a car outside, we could –"

"Wait." Stiles' voice. He stood up from the corner, and Scott followed his example. "We have to destroy this place. Like, _really_."

"What? Stiles, we don't have time, we have to get out of here … We can call the …"

Scott trailed off when he realized that maybe there wasn't anyone they could call. Stiles shook his head and tried to wipe his bloody hands on his pants. "No, you don't get it. They have a ton of research and shit. Samples of, I don't even know what. They've done this before, it just hasn't worked before. That woman, she was a human just like me, but she wasn't the first, um, human. You guysweren't the first _non_ -humans."

Suddenly frantic, as he couldn't get the blood off, he went for the door. "We have to … stop them. We have to destroy them, make sure they can't do this again. We have to … we _have_ to!"

Jackson, Derek and Scott looked at each other. Then Derek sighed, because yeah, why the hell not? "Right. Okay. Um, Jackson, could you go outside and find the car? Bring it to the exit, then keep watch. If anyone shows up, stop them."

Fully expecting Jackson to refuse or make a scathing comment, he was surprised when Jackson just nodded. Encouraged by this, he turned to Scott:

"Go with Stiles. Check the labs and offices on this floor. Take what you think may be important, destroy what you can. If anyone shows up …"

He didn't have to tell them; Scott nodded.

"I'm checking the cells."

Derek went with Scott and Stiles through the corridor on the floor they were at. There were no stairs leading up or down, and there was only one exit, right outside the break room. They checked all doors, and all spaces they could find. When they found no other humans, Derek left them for the elevator.

This time, he actually cringed at the bloody mess, and he had to force himself to get in. Trying not to think about _Stiles_ doing this, and consequently what had been done to him to make him do it, he resolutely stared at the elevator doors until they opened.

It was uncomfortable to know for sure that he was below ground, and wouldn't find any windows anywhere. It was even more uncomfortable to start checking the doors of this floor.

Down one set of stairs, he found the entrance to what had been Stiles' cell, with two dead bodies – one crumpled against the wall, and another halfway up the stairs. He didn't have to go all the way down to know that they were dead; he couldn't hear any heartbeats, but he went anyway. Looked into the cell. It looked identical with the one he had been in, but it smelled differently, and there was blood on the floor and the glass. He didn't go inside.

The other cells, and the stairs leading down to them, were empty. The ones after Jackson's smelled new; unused, or scrubbed clean. They filled him with discomfort, and he ripped the locks from the doors so that the doors couldn't be closed properly. It wouldn't matter, but it made him feel a little better.

At the further end of the hall, there were more doors. One of them led to a … lab? No, not a lab. But a room, filled with equipment that made Derek's blood run cold. There was a metal table in the middle of a room, a chair in one end, and both of them had leather straps, and Derek realized that this was where Stiles had been taken. There was a whole lot of medical equipment, and some kind of refrigerators filled with what must have been the samples Stiles were talking about. In each corner of the room, by the ceiling, there were the same kind of cameras that had been in the cells. Derek shuddered.

The next room was worse. It was … a morgue. Derek only opened one of the containers, to find the body of a man in his 40s, and was hit with a realization; people were dead because of what had happened here. _They_ could have ended up dead. _Stiles almost did._

He didn't need to know how many there were. He didn't need more nightmares, and besides, they were short on time, so he quickly left the room.

The last room was kind of like an office, but with several screens (showing the cells, the labs, the hallways, the outside…) on one side and filing cabinets on the other. In a corner was a metal cabinet that, when opened, revealed electronics. Derek wasn't the most technical guy out there, but he ripped out the hard drives and put them away by the door, before he took out his frustration and anger on everything else in sight.

He left the room in shambles.

* * *

When he got up on the second floor, with his arms full of hard drives and files, Jackson met him and grinned.

"What?"

"I brought presents. There's two more by the door."

He held up his hands, which each held a metal jerry can.

The cans, which he had found under the same roof where he found the cars (plural, although Derek had only seen one), contained gasoline, and while they probably weren't enough to burn the whole place down, they were at least enough to make some serious damage. Derek stopped Scott in the corridor when he passed.

"You guys almost done?"

"Yeah, I mean … we took the computers and stuff, so …"

"Good. Take the cans by the door, pour it over everything that looks important. Then get ready to leave. Jackson, you're with me."

Once again, Derek went down in the elevator, this time with Jackson by his side. Neither of them spoke, but when Derek dragged one of the bodies from the elevator, Jackson bent down to grab the other.

They put a body in each of the cells they had been in. Four bodies, four cells. Then they each took a jerry can and went to work. Gasoline on the bodies, up the stairs and into the hallway. Derek went into the lab – he'd seen some canisters in there with a familiar warning label on them – and he took great care in pouring the contents over everything in the room. Before they went back to the elevator, they did the same to the last room in the hallway. Neither of them went inside the morgue, though.

Back in the elevator, Derek had a second to wonder how they were going to light it when Jackson fished a lighter out from his pocket. At Derek's raised eyebrow, he explained:

"The woman in the break room. She was a smoker."

They got into the elevator, and Jackson bent down towards the floor. He had barely set fire to the puddle on the floor before Derek pushed the elevator's button. The last thing they saw before the doors closed was the flames that spread along the corridor.

Derek was half worried that the elevator would stop – if it did, they were dead. But wonder of wonders, they reached the top, and when the doors opened, Jackson ran smack into Stiles.

"Okay, hurry, hurry!" Derek said and turned them both around. "Light it up!"

"Where?" Jackson asked, and Stiles pointed.

Scott and Stiles had put the gasoline mainly in the labs, and Jackson lit them on fire as they hurried out. Suddenly a loud boom sounded somewhere beneath them, and the whole building shook.

"Out, out, out!" Derek chanted and pushed them down the hall. Scott was waiting outside, the car they'd taken already running. They jumped in, and Scott drove off before they had even closed the doors.

There was only one road, and it was bumpy, especially since Scott wasn't going slow. It was maybe ten minutes later – during which no one spoke a word – that they came out on a road with asphalt. Scott didn't hesitate, just turned the car towards the left, and kept driving.

Maybe twenty minutes had passed before Derek felt safe enough to relax a fraction. They hadn't met a single car so far, and they hadn't seen a single building. He looked around the car. He was seated in the back with Jackson, and Stiles was sitting in the front with Scott. They all looked … well, weary, which wasn't a surprise. And tense. So, so tense.

He looked back, and saw that the back of the car was full of things they had taken from the place they had hopefully destroyed for good. He sighed loudly and put his hands over his face.

That seemed to be the signal that it was okay to start talking, because Scott said:

"Wow, guys. That was … Wow. I can't believe we did that. I can't believe that happened to us. This is so weird."

"This is _fucked up_ , you mean", Jackson said with a waver in his voice. Derek glanced over. Jackson's eyes were red-rimmed and he blinked several times. Derek looked away, and found that he himself was shaking a little, and couldn't stop.

"Yeah", he said. "Fucked up."

Stiles made a choked sound from the front seat, and they all turned to look at him. Scott's eyes widened, and he pulled the car over to the side of the road. As soon as they'd stopped, he was out of the driver's seat and ran around the car to open the door on Stiles' side.

"Stiles? Stiles? It's okay, Stiles, it's okay …"

Derek also exited the car, and pulled Jackson with him. He went to the passenger side, where he found Scott sitting on the ground, holding a shivering Stiles, whose eyes were back to yellow. Stiles watched his hand, where claws emerged and retracted, emerged and retracted, and the sound he made was half hysterical laughter, half sobs.

Derek nudged Scott with his foot. When Scott looked up, he motioned back to the car.

"We need to keep going. Take the backseat. I'll drive."

* * *

It felt good to be in the driver's seat. It was almost as if he had regained some kind of control over things. This was something he could _do_ , and yet nothing complicated was asked of him. He only needed to drive; to continue taking them further away from that place.

Jackson was in the passenger's seat next to him, his forehead to the glass and eyes closed. He could have been sleeping, if it wasn't for the tension in his shoulders and the way he clenched his teeth together.

It was still early morning. Light outside, and trees on each side of the road. They had passed a couple of houses, but nothing that indicated a community.

In the backseat, Scott and Stiles were talking in low voices. Stiles had apparently just realized that he had actually killed other human beings, and he wasn't taking it very well. Scott's voice got hard when he said:

"Don't, Stiles. Don't feel that way. What they did was … that wasn't human at all. If you hadn't done what you did, we'd still be there."

"But I … I _killed_ them. I killed them. I … oh holy god, I killed them."

"If you hadn't, I would have", Derek muttered, which caused a paus in the conversation.

"They said …" Stiles started. Hesitated. "They said that I should be grateful."

No one else spoke, but they all listened when he continued:

"They were trying to make a … a hybrid, with all the strength from other species, but without the weaknesses. They said …" He swallowed. "… that if I survived, I'd be the first one. That I should be _grateful_ for the opportunity."

Derek's hands tightened on the steering wheel when he remembered agonized screaming and unseeing, staring eyes. A paus, then:

"… I survived, but …" And here, his voice cracked. "… I don't feel very grateful."

Scott moved in the backseat, and started talking in a soothing voice, when Stiles seemed to get close to hyper-ventilating.

"Shit, shit, shit … I'm … oh god. What do we do now?"

"We'll figure it out, Stiles."

"How? We're two werewolves and a lizard and a _whatever-the-hell-they-turned-me-into_ who's been kidnapped, and I've killed, like, seven people, and we burned down the lab and who knows how many people knows about that place? Who knows how many people are involved in this? We have to find them and stop them, but we're in a stolen car in the middle of nowhere, with a trunk full of evidence that we can't show anyone who doesn't know about werewolves! And … oh shit."

Derek looked in the mirror, to see Stiles lose all colour. "What?"

"I have to call my dad. Shit. _I have to tell my dad_."

At this, Jackson – without moving his head from the window – put his hand in a pocket and dug out a phone, which he tossed into the backseat. When he noticed Derek looking at him, he shrugged and said:

"The smoker. She had a phone on her."

He then straightened up in his seat and took a deep breath. Glanced over at Derek, and then into the backseat.

"He's right, though. What the hell do we do now?"

Derek inhaled. Exhaled. Kept driving.

"First, we go as far away from that place as possible. Then we get help, and we find the people responsible for this, and we put a stop to them."

Jackson snorted, unamused, as they both heard Stiles dial from the backseat. The phone rang once …

"How?" Jackson whispered.

… the phone rang twice …

"One step at the time", Derek answered.

… and then someone picked up. Derek saw a sign in the distance, where the road split into two. He dragged a hand over his face and exhaled. They were free. They were okay. All he had to do for now was to keep driving. He could do that.

From the back, he heard Stiles' voice:

"… Dad."


End file.
